


The Ezra Fell affair

by UlsPi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, The Thomas Crown Affair (1999)
Genre: (love crimes), Alternate Universe - Human, Art, Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Not Innocent (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Not Oblivious (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Little Shit (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Crowley is Whipped (Good Omens), Heist, Jewish Good Omens (Good Omens), M/M, Museums, love crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:03:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21835645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UlsPi/pseuds/UlsPi
Summary: Crowley could. Crowley would. Had Ezra Fell been a reincarnation of Albrecht Dürer, he'd offer his skinny form for the artist's engravings, but as of the moment, while DI Hastur and DS Ligur discussed the way Eyeore dealt with his depression, while the room was full of chatter and London, full of gloom, the one artist to remain unrivaled engraved Ezra Fell, the primary suspect of Anthony Crowley, insurance investigator, on Anthony Crowley's heart, a useless muscle, really, never properly used unless a Renaissance masterpiece was involved. He was fucked.Just another AU.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 70





	1. Crime of boredom

If one were to google the cost of Albrecht Dürer's artworks, one would find that he is far behind Leonardo and Van Gogh, and that is very important knowledge indeed. One wouldn't discover, though, that Goethe owned an impressive collection of Dürer's artworks, originals, signed gifts and first editions of Dürer's books. That fact is even more important. 

***

Any modernist and especially post-modernist writer would suggest that beginning a story with "one bright morning in London" is inherently idiotic and might serve only as an ironic opening. Any person living in London would agree that a bright morning is something worth mentioning, and we are talking about February, therefore doubly so. This author is not (post) modernist, and the fact of the matter is that indeed it was one bright morning in London (in February!) when a group of armed men stormed down the halls of the National Gallery and attempted to steal a painting by Albrecht Dürer. Of course the group was swiftly arrested, but the whole affair caused so much havoc and panic that nobody noticed until an hour later that Dürer's  _ Self-portrait at the _ Age of  _ Twenty-eight _ (on loan from Alte Pinakothek) had been missing. To make matters worse, in the chaos somebody turned the fire alarm on, and the cameras resembled a typical English window in autumn, which is to say nothing could be seen and everyone felt melancholic and wanted to read the most heartbreaking passages from Dickens. 

The arrested perpetrators who weren't really perpetrators at all, explained in good English that they had been approached by someone and offered a handsome payment and British citizenship (both had been given) but it had never been specified what to steal, just to grab some Dürer. As the men never made it to the room where the portrait was on display and never succeeded in anything as criminal as stealing a famous painting, the justice was served cold and not that severe, considering the fact that the men would never have to work again in their lives.

The big bosses of an even bigger insurance company didn't care that much about a bunch of immigrants (and wasn't it just typical?), but cared about the stolen painting and even more so about the sum they would have to pay to such a useless establishment as an art museum. That was how one typically gloomy morning (in February) a tall lanky red-haired man dressed in black and wearing dark glasses, walked into Scotland Yard and right into the office of DI Hastur and said, "Hello, people. Here I am."

He proceeded to drop his too many limbs into a chair and appeared to be fast asleep. (He didn't have too many limbs, but he had no knowledge whatsoever of the way human hips function, so two legs appeared like five and the man was either a snake or a very drunk millipede.)

"And who are you?" Asked DI Hastur. He was grumpy in general and that morning in particular. 

"I'm Anthony Crowley, the insurance investigator." Anthony Crowley, the insurance investigator, pulled out of his fancy bag a fancy glass of something disgustingly green and took a sip. The thing had the immediate effect of sending shivers down the insurance investigator's body and making him raise his head a bit.

"Sorry about that. Jet lag." The head fell backwards again and it took another sip of the green stuff to make him raise his head permanently.

"Where have you… been?" Asked DS Ligur whose main job was to keep things polite.

"New Zealand. Hobbiting." The man answered and finished the whole disgusting green drink in one go. "Spinach… The Almighty overreacted with spinach. And cucumbers. And green apples. And jet lags… So, from what I have learned on my endless way here, that was a crime of boredom."

Crowley took his sunglasses off to reveal yellow eyes and mismatched pupils. 

"Boredom?" Roared DI Hastur.

"Yeah, boredom. Like… if you want to steal the thing yourself, you are bored, right?"

"Or a criminal?" Suggested DS Ligur politely.

"No. Security cameras show that nobody rushed out of the building during the presumed time of the heist. They stayed there…"

"But like, why steal and stay?" Asked DS Ligur, politely.

"To avoid being noticed!" Roared DI Hastur.

"Nah, to avoid being noticed you hire a bunch of people to steal the painting and then steal it yourself. Or hire someone to steal it, but… it looks like a crime of boredom."

"Are you paid for these insights?" Asked DI Hastur.

"Sure. 10% of the insurance. But enough about me!"

(DI Hastur and DS Ligur quickly calculated that the man was a millionaire and was an overall a cheeky bastard.)

"If you hire a bunch of badass men to pretend to steal something and then hire someone to do the actual stealing… like, what are the odds that the person doing the actual stealing might be scared for their freedom and record and just give it all up? I was there, guys, the odds are high."

"You… were there?"

"Yes. Van Gogh. Leonardo. Another Leonardo. Did my time, paid my debts, work for the good guys now, if you can call a shitload of capitalist dickheads the good guys…"

(DI Hastur and DS Ligur liked him a bit more.)

"Must have been a short time," remarked DI Hastur.

"It was. I fully cooperated, besides I'm an expert in Leonardo… stuff, so I managed to prove that what I stole was actually a fake Leonardo, which it wasn't but who cares. You seem like trustworthy people, right? The painting is back in its museum anyway. Whatever. My point is, this crime was committed for kicks. Don't get me wrong, I get a kick out of Dürer myself, but first, I'm hardly alone in this, and second, to be that bored you have to be obscenely rich. I did my research and found out that each and every Dürer on the market has been bought by one Ezra Fell for the last twenty years. Now, I spend too much time hobbiting but even I know about Ezra Fell. Now, shall we?"

"Shall we what?" Asked DS Ligur, a bit lost.

"Shall we pay the man a visit?" clarified Crowley.

"We can't… he's the biggest name in the finance, has been for… the last twenty years. Oh." DS Ligur rubbed his forehead.

"Look, Ezra Fell is a genius. His investments are ineffably wise, and he's the only person on Earth who uses the word  _ ineffable  _ in casual conversations. He supports dozens of charities, volunteers in refugee camps, buys entire streets for homeless people, rescues queer people from oppressive regimes, is a sponsor of so many cancer studies they might as well finally find a cure for cancer, and the more he gives, the more he earns the next time he chooses to invest, and he wears tartan." Crowley actually winced at the last fact. 

"Is tartan an evidence?" DS Ligur asked.

"Of someone being an idiot," grumbled DI Hastur.

"No, it's eccentric, but like, terribly so," explained Crowley. "Let's pay him a visit, shall we?"

"The man has the best lawyers," said DS Ligur with doubt.

"So what? He's an angel, but he must get bored every now and then. He's an angel and that's evidence enough for me that he can't be that simple. I'm going to pay him a visit anyway, I'm just helping you people out."

"We can't just visit him!" DS Ligur was losing it. DI Hastur had lost it a few minutes before.

"You faithless creatures! He's donating a copy of the portrait by one of Dürer's apprentices to the National Gallery. He's going to be there in half an hour. Shall we, huh?"

Neither DI Hastur nor DS Ligur were museum-goers, and they had a very good reason for it - too many of famous paintings (sculptures etc) depicted gruesome crimes and they had enough of that on duty. They had the reputation of tough guys and secretly wept when they read about Winnie-the-Pooh. Both considered themselves Eyeore and aspired to be more like the titular bear. They definitely had the Piglet's anxiety. DI Hastur sometimes behaved like Tigger after his first coffee of the day. But they were tough. Really tough. Exceptionally, singularly, undoubtedly tough. And Crowley was very cool, there could be no doubt about it. The reader has to bear that in mind.

Meanwhile Ezra Fell was unashamedly soft, had dandelion white hair, beautiful blue eyes and a smile to melt the Arctic (perhaps he was the reason for climate change, but he'd cry buckets and buckets had someone told him that, so nobody did). He wore white suits straight from the funniest passages from Dickens. He was standing in front of the copy of Dürer's self-portrait and looked vaguely distressed.

"Regretting it already, aren't you?" Crowley asked slithering to stand next to the man.

"Regretting? No, why would I regret it. I regret I live in a world where people steal masterpieces."

"Tough world, yeah." Crowley agreed. "Goethe had a marvelous collection of Dürer's works. It used to be scattered around the world, in different museums and private collections. Weren't you the man who meticulously bought all of the items? Hope you haven't loaned that too…"

"I haven't." Ezra Fell blushed. "I gave it away, anonymously. Please, don't tell anyone."

"You what?"

"Gave it away, anonymously!" Ezra was quickly establishing himself as an easily irritated man. "It belongs in the Goethe's museum, not in… all the other places."

"My, my, the man might have shagged you silly."

"Well, I certainly dreamed of it." Ezra blushed a deeper shade of red. 

"You courted the long dead poet?"

"I courted the long dead poet," confessed Ezra with a sigh.

"You sure know how to court."

"I'm glad you appreciate my courting skills, Mr..?"

"Crowley."

"Crowley? The famous art thief?"

"Not a nice word."

"You are practically a demon!" Finally Ezra turned to face the man next to him and swallowed his next breath.

"Not really. I'd know how to admire a Leonardo," said Crowley with conviction.

"Such art belongs to everyone," replied Ezra without any conviction. "You.. your hair resembles Dürer's, you yourself resemble him. A bit. I guess."

"I'm a work of art, I agree," Crowley smiled. He had confidence and a suspect, and however adorable, handsome and apparently generous the suspect was, Crowley still had him. 

"Someone might just pin you to a wall," said Ezra smugly. The bastard of him made a sensational appearance.

"Well… care to do the honours?" Crowley said. He was speaking automatically, his mouth was dry and he had eyefuls of his suspect. Thank bad genes for his sunglasses. His genes, his style and the unbreakable (as he thought) air of coolness (he had none, not at the moment anyway).

"I'd love to, my dear, but there's that new restaurant nearby. They do remarkable things to oysters, I hear."

"Never eaten an oyster," said Crowley, dry mouth, absent judgment, his suspect suddenly too much of an angelic bastard to fully comprehend his existence.

"Oh, let me tempt you…"

That was a phrase Crowley used many times and usually it worked out quite well, but he could never compete with the way Ezra Fell, billionaire, philanthropist, financier, said it.

"Oh, but it must be your job, mustn't it?" Ezra smiled, smooth, soft, lips pink, crow feet around his eyes exquisite. 

"Ehm… no, as a matter of fact I'm an insurance investigator these days, and you know, a good one." 

"Which means you can pay for our lunch, doesn't it?"

Crowley could. Crowley would. Had Ezra Fell been a reincarnation of Albrecht Dürer, he'd offer his skinny form for the artist's engravings, but as of the moment, while DI Hastur and DS Ligur discussed the way Eyeore dealt with his depression, while the room was full of chatter and London, full of gloom, the one artist to remain unrivaled engraved Ezra Fell, the primary suspect of Anthony Crowley, insurance investigator, on Anthony Crowley's heart, a useless muscle, really, never properly used unless a Renaissance masterpiece was involved. He was fucked.


	2. Love you make, love you take

"I'm in pursuit," Crowley texted to Hastur. Hastur replied with "How the fuck did you get my number?" Crowley chose to leave it at that and pursue his primary suspect, the light of his eyes. The pursuit didn't seem demanding anyway, he just followed Ezra Fell out of the museum, and Ezra's steps were careful and soft, as if he had been grateful to the very ground for being nice enough to let him step on it. As far as Crowley was concerned, the ground had to be grateful to carry Ezra Fell.

"It's a short walk, my dear, but we could of course get there by car. The weather disagrees with you…"

What in fact disagreed with Crowley was his reason, or rather deplorable absence of it. "I don't like wearing coats and my jacket is doing just fine." For the record, his stylish shoes were not doing just or any other kind of fine.

"As you say, my dear." 

They walked to the restaurant where Ezra Fell was greeted like Elijah the Prophet. 

"What is it, my dear Mr Crowley?" Ezra asked looking up from his plate of oysters.

"It's called salad, dear Mr Fell. Some of us observe kashrut."

"Oh, but my dear fellow, the Almighty has never tasted these molluscs." Contrary to the Almighty, Ezra immediately tasted those molluscs and let out a quiet and obscene moan. 

"The Almighty is vegan," proclaimed Crowley and dug into his salad with vengeance.

"Are you?"

"I am." 

"So, do you consider yourself closer to the Almighty, my dear?"

"You know, Mr Fell, you look like an angel, save lives, support people in need and behave like a bastard."

"I'm blending in, Mr Crowley. You could do it too and eat fish in a fish restaurant."

"And comply?"

"Comply?.. Surely not," another moan, tender and sweet, "you are a thief, aren't you? Will always remain one, won't you? I should be more careful with my wallet…"

"Oh, don't bother, angel, it's safe and sound in my pocket." Crowley pulled Ezra's wallet out of his pocket. The third oyster fell back on the plate with a frankly repulsive smack. "I never specified whose money I will pay with, did I?"

"I have underestimated you, my dear boy."

"You have no idea, angel." Crowley ate a forkful of salad and the vegetables crunched on his teeth triumphantly.

"Perhaps you should enlighten me. Or return me my wallet. Whichever suits you best."

"Told you, it's safe and sound in my pocket," Crowley put the wallet back into his pocket. 

"Safe and sound?"

"Sure. You'll get it back, don't worry."

"Taking my fingerprints without m…"

"I have no authority to do such things and I don't want to give your lawyers any leverage."

"It will have your fingerprints though, my dear."

"To prove what? That we had lunch together? That you chose to invite me to lunch instead of immediately escaping my company having learned I'm a thief? How lovely of you to remind me of it, by the way. Unlike you, I served my time."

"But I did nothing to deserve time, my dear."

"Of course. Why would you imply otherwise?"

"Me? I didn't imply anything!"

"Eat your non-kosher meal, angel. May the Almighty forgive you."

"I'm sure the Almighty will." Ezra serenely ate a few more oysters, although without moans or much appetite. "I shouldn't have called you out like that. It was impolite of me and I apologise," said Ezra after several minutes. He spoke with such conviction and honesty, that Crowley's heart fell on Ezra's plate with a smack, just another snot of life at the service of Ezra's pleasures. 

"You are forgiven, angel… now for something completely different…"

"Yes, my dear, please," pleaded Ezra. A bellpepper crunched hopelessly on Crowley's teeth.

"Ngk… that portrait. The one whose copy you loaned."

"Yes, what about it? Shall I order us dessert?"

"No, angel, you spoil yourself only, since you are paying. So, that portrait… We both know that it had never belonged to Goethe, but he frequently mentioned that he'd love to own it. So wouldn't it be just… heartbreaking if whoever stole that portrait sent it to Weimar with a love note?"

"Why would a thief do that, my dear?"

"Why would a thief steal a famous painting in broad daylight? What would they do to it anyway?"

"Sell on the black market?.. Such a pity really that I can't help thinking how I'd love to get my people to track it down…" Ezra said dreamily taking a spoonful of fruit mousse. "But then… I would absolutely love to send it to Weimar."

"He's dead, Ezra."

"Oh I know. You see, I have everything money can buy, I somehow become richer each time I try to become poorer, and… I actually love what I do. It's akin to solving a puzzle, making a good move in the game of chess. I love spending this money on luxuries and love sharing this money with people who need it much more than I do. I… buy love. I bought Goethe's love too. I have so much of it in me, so much love, so much unused affection, and I express it the only way I apparently can, by investing in and supporting the things I love."

"Alternatively, you could use a shag."

"Care to provide me with one, my dear? Or are you all conversation and no action at all?"

"Alright, angel," Crowley pushed away his unfinished salad with the disquieting grace of a person about to do something impulsive and absolutely, fully, impossibly pleasant. "If I understand your whining correctly, you love a lot and you want to be loved a lot. Your strange, luxurious life has led you to the conclusion that being as you are, whatever it is you consider yourself to be, you need an impossible, ineffable, as you like to say, love. Something as out of this world as your riches and acts of charity."

"I do have a therapist, my dear, but I don't have a lover."

"Angel, do you dare me? What if it's an elaborate plot to get into your house, search for the portrait and prove myself to my bosses?"

"First, no need to go to my house. Second, if I did steal the portrait, which I didn't, why would I just keep it in my house?"

"You love fine things, angel. You'd sit in front of it with a glass of wine and enjoy its beauty."

"Sounds more like something you would do, my dear. You simply couldn't afford it, and I'm terribly sorry about it."

"I'm not."

"How did it even come to be?"

"That I became a thief? Oh, angel, I come from a good family, I was brilliant, bright and bored, I wanted an adventure, I got myself one."

"That simple?"

"Yes. Unlike you, angel, I was a spoiled bastard who never cared about the poor, never considered someone else's well-being."

"Where are your parents?"

"Exactly where they were. I didn't want to return to them, however much they asked."

"So you're forgiven but unforgiving, aren't you, my dear?"

"Yes, you put it rather elegantly, angel."

"Marked yourself as Cain?"

"Even more elegantly put."

"My poor boy…"

"Poor? Far from it, angel. I send most of it to my parents, though, they know what to do."

"Which is?"

"Charity. They support different organizations working with prisons."

"They, not you?"

"Well, doesn't show on my account, so I don't support a thing. I keep a flat here in Mayfair, I have a small house in the middle of nowhere in New Zealand."

"Nowhere?"

"Yes, nowhere. My supervisor, Bea, a terrifying person I met in prison, they look after it when I'm on a case."

"And… are you happy?"

"I don't think I deserve to be. Here is your wallet, angel. I'll pay the bill."

***

"You know… you can let go of my hand, angel."

"I'd… rather not, darling."

"Alright… no complaints."

"Good. Let me catch my breath…"

"No, I don't think so. I've been staring at your dark ceiling for what seems like an eternity and I'm bored, I'd rather look at you. What colour is your ceiling anyway?"

"You know, I have absolutely no idea. Yours?"

"Same… interesting. So our decorators might as well have written obscenities over the ceilings in our bedrooms and we were unaware."

"I don't lie on my back usually. You?"

"Nah, angel, neither do I. It seems you have managed to catch your breath. Vey is mir?"

"Want to fix it, my darling boy?"

***

Anathema would always storm into places, be it a business meeting or her boss's bedroom. Having worked as Ezra's PA for the last five years, she knew she'd find her ineffable employer in his cozy pyjamas, fast asleep. She would open the curtains and as it happened that morning, would yell. 

No, that's not true. She opened the curtains letting the bright gloom of the morning into the room and heard behind her a curse. Ezra explicitly never cursed, so she turned around in panic. Something in Ezra's bed cursed again and pulled the blankets over its head so far that Anathema could see a pair of impossibly long legs.

"What the fuck?" Something cursed for the third time, and only then Anathema yelled, "Who the fuck are you?!"

The owner of two or more legs curled on themselves and cursed yet again.

"Who are you and where is Ezra?"

The… man? The man sat up quickly, the blanket fell off him to reveal his lanky torso and a copper-haired head. The man looked at Anathema. Turned his head.

"In the shower, as you can hear. Who are you?"

"I'm Ezra's PA. And you..? What, Dürer's self-portrait turned into a man? Are you a man?"

"As far as I can tell. Never gave it much thought, to be honest. Might be. And I'm not half as good-looking as Dürer. Could you stop that flood of light, please."

At that moment, Ezra walked out of the bathroom, almost fully dressed (no bowtie, no vest, alright, just the shirt and trousers) and carefully pushed the man back onto the bed where he snuggled in Aziraphale's thigh and sighed contentedly.

"Good morning, Anathema. Would you please let my darling rest for a while longer? I'm afraid I didn't let him sleep that much."

"I didn't let you sleep that much, angel," said the "darling" grumpily. 

"Oh, my sweet, I'm just showing off."

Anathema kept standing where she was.

"You. Brought a man. Home."

"Not just any man, the famous Mr Crowley."

"You brought the art thief Crowley home."

"We all like a bad boy, don't we, Anathema?"

"Yeah, I'm bad," admitted darling sweet art thief Crowley.

"Off you go, dear girl. I'm quite sorted for the day."

"You shagged."

"Angel, who is this woman and why can't she leave us alone?"

"This is Anathema, she's my PA. She usually wakes me up at this hour."

"This is an ungodly hour. Decidedly not kosher."

"I will have to agree with you, darling. Anathema?"

"You shagged."

"Off you go."

"You shagged!" She repeated joyously and had the good sense to indeed leave.

***

They had a nice breakfast, then called a cab and went to the National Gallery, where Ezra was greeted like Elijah the Prophet. 

"Of course you may show the picture to your partner. It's your picture after all."

"None of that! I gave it to you until the real thing is found and returned. Could we..?"

"Oh, sure, Mr Fell, thank you, have a good day."

"So, darling, what say you?"

Crowley put the picture under a huge magnifying glass and bent over to take a closer look. He apparently stopped breathing for a moment, because the next he burst into a coughing fit. 

"Angel…" Crowley straightened up and looked at Ezra adoringly.

"Everything appears to be in order, my love?"

"Love?"

"Yes, love. My impossible, ineffable love."

"I love you too, angel. Was afraid you'd say it's too fast or something."

"It is rather fast, my love, but we've spent enough time apart, don't you think?"

"So… why did you take it if you returned it the next day?"

"You were right, I was bored. Or maybe I dreamed of a dashing insurance investigator to come and sweep me off my feet…"

"What will happen now?"

"Nothing. The picture will stay here, then return to Alte Pinakothek and sooner or later they'll find out it has been the original all along, but… it only raises questions about the quality of the expertise… or the honesty of Alte Pinakothek in the first place. As for me… I'm staying with you."

"And what shall we do, angel?"

"Go and visit your parents obviously!"

"Angel, no!"

"My love, yes. I'm not marrying you without a thorough discussion with your parents."

"They don't own me, angel!"

"Of course they don't, my love, but I do, and I want to negotiate the deal. Isn't it wise?"

"Come, angel, let's have lunch."

"Somewhere kosher this time, darling."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Kudos and comments are welcome, very much so. Spread the word, if you liked it.


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